Shielded Heart
by SplatDragon
Summary: Whumptober2019: #4: "Human Shield" John, despite common belief, was no fool. He wasn't the smartest boy. But he could tell when someone didn't like him. It was a valuable skill on the streets, after all, and so even he could tell that Arthur Morgan didn't like him.


**Whumptober 2019, Prompt #4: "Human Shield"**

John, despite common belief, was no fool.

He wasn't the smartest boy. But he could tell when someone didn't like him. It was a valuable skill on the streets, after all, and so even he could tell that Arthur Morgan didn't like him.

The man had saved his life, sure. But only at the bidding of Dutch and Hosea, he would surely have just kept riding if it weren't for them. He'd picked him up off the dirt, been kind enough after shooting through the rope of the noose, helped calm him down and wiped the filth off of his clothes. Even yelled at the people who'd tried to hang him (and no, he _wasn't _a kid, despite Arthur yelling about "hangin' a _kid_, what's **wrong** with you?!"), offering him water.

But ever since, he'd been nothing but gruff. Never truly _mean_, but short, and blunt, and unhelpful. When Dutch and Hosea would ask him to help John with something, he'd do it grudgingly, get frustrated, and finally ask them to do it. He was never _mean_, or at least mean enough to be called out for it, but it a fool could see that he didn't much like 'little Johnny Marston'.

So when they were ambushed by bandits, and John was thrown to the ground, he fully expected to die. Arthur was occupied with his own opponents, and he knew the man wouldn't put himself at risk to save him. Dutch and Hosea would be upset, sure, but in the end he was just a street rat that hadn't been with them too long, a kid who didn't contribute and couldn't even fight yet. The man who'd flung him was walking towards him slowly, rotten teeth bared in a nasty grin, and for some reason John couldn't help but notice the golden cap on one of his few remaining top teeth. He wished he could give it to Hosea and Dutch, it would sell for a decent sum, but now he never would be able to come close to paying them back.

The man was clearly taunting him, cocking his gun slowly, uncaring that he was discarding unspent bullets (Hosea and Dutch would've reamed them out for wasting ammunition), safe in the fact that the older, stronger of the two was distracted, barely holding his own against the handful of bandits that had herded him away from John. He brought the gun up, leveled it with John's head, still standing a number of feet away, and John knew that if he missed he'd just keep firing—he was just target practice to the snickering man.

He should have scrambled, struggled to his feet, done whatever he could to get up and run and _fight_, even with the breath still knocked out of his lungs. But, staring down the barrel, even from a distance, he was frozen with terror. Ice flooded his veins, and his heart thrummed in his ears. '_Please, God, let it be quick. Please don't let it be like hangin'._' The noose had been horrific, but if it hadn't been for their failures, for not putting him higher up, for not weighing him down, he would have broken his neck, wouldn't have been strangled, wouldn't have survived.

He choked on a sob and, as the man tightened his finger on the trigger, closed his eyes, unable to watch his death come for him.

"_JOHN!"_

There was a bang, and an awful squelch. A grunt, and warm blood struck his face. But it didn't hurt—why didn't it hurt? Was he in shock? Had he already died, would he open his eyes to see his corpse on the ground? Slowly, he opened his eyes, afraid as to what he'd see.

It took him a moment to process what he did see, it was so unexpected. It was not the man with the gun, nasty grin wide in satisfaction, his corpse stretched out on the ground minus part of his head. And it wasn't the sky, the force of the shot knocking him onto his back.

Arthur knelt in front of him, shoulders heavy as he panted, hand clutching his stomach, a red spot rapidly expanding on the back of his grey duster. '_What…?'_

'_Did he save me?'_

As John lay, more stunned than before, Arthur slowly straightened up, shoulders hunched, drawing his gun on the man who stood still in shock, eyes wide and teeth still bared in that nasty grin that had turned into more of a grimace, firing once into his hand (his gun fell to the ground) and then a second time between his eyes, right where he had been aiming at John. The man crumpled, joining his companions on the ground.

Uncaring, Arthur turned to face John, and John blanched. His hand was bloody where it was clenched over his stomach, the black-red spot there far larger than the one on his back. As he holstered his gun, offering his free hand to John, he asked "Alright Johnny?" face tight with pain.

John nodded stiffly, accepting the hand that pulled him onto his feet as though he weighed as much as a newborn pup, taking him off the ground before setting him upright. "Why?" Arthur's raised eyebrow told him exactly what the man was thinking, "Why… did you save me? You got hurt."

Arthur shrugged, wincing as that pulled on his wound. "Hosea and Dutch would've been upset." he muttered, but the way the tips of his ears had gone red, and the way he wouldn't meet John's eyes, spoke volumes.

Arthur Morgan may not have been willing to admit it, but he was beginning to care for Little Johnny Marston.


End file.
